


Ripples

by BloodyMary



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: AU, Angron Without Nails, Erebus is the only mature adult here, First Captain Garro, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:10:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1532021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyMary/pseuds/BloodyMary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were a myriad threads upon which the fate of the Galaxy hung. Some of them were momentous events, others were just tiny everyday decisions. Some of those choices are made by the great, like the Emperor of Mankind, while others, but people whose names are meant to be forgotten, like a slaver from Nuceria...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were a myriad threads upon which the fate of the Galaxy hung. Some of them were momentous events, others were just tiny everyday decisions. Illyna never learned that the fact that she chose to make her provisions a day earlier, and left with Aharon, Javan and Tamar into the wilderness half an hour earlier was one such event.

When she reached the feet of the mountains, she did not find an exhausted boy and corpses of the alien raiders that occasionally plagued her world. Instead, she saw the child fight.

Though she had witnessed many a gladiator in the grip of the Nails, the savage beauty of combat that she saw on that day was something that gripped her heart. The slender figures moved like dancers, and yet, they could not avoid the savagery of the little boy. His screams were terrible—they gripped her heart in an almost inexplicable way. Despite the almost physical pain the howls of pain and fury caused her, she did not dare interfere. There was something about the way he fought that took her breath away and rooted her in place.

Only when all the aggressors were dead and the child had collapsed, did Illyna leave her hiding place, Tamar and Javan on her heels. Her approach was hesitant, but she did not intend to leave the boy behind. 

She approached slowly, her heartbeat and the rustling of grass being crumpled under her feet preternaturally loud in her ears. Though she knew better, she could not help but to imagine the bloody, torn figures picking their broken bodies up and striking her down. There was something eerie, wrong about how they were built: almost human, but entirely alien at the same time. Their blood sparkled in the sun, like jewels, and the smell was also subtly wrong, missing the familiar coppery tang. 

She picked her way between the corpses and torn limbs until she found the boy. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. Scabbed gashes covered his cheeks and forehead, with deeper wounds marring his oddly muscular body. Up close, he also looked alien, though in a different way: his proportions were those of a toddler, but at the same time his body was corded with the hard muscle of a gladiator. Illyna had thought him to be six, judging by his size, but now her guess appeared to be absurd. 

But Illyna followed her impulse and knelt down to inspect the small body before her. Most of the wounds did not appear fresh at all—had she not seen them being inflicted moments ago, the slaver would have judged them to be a week old or even older. 

“He’s going to fetch a nice price,” Tamar said. “Skilled fighter, heals bloody fast…”

With a start, Illyna looked to her companion. She was right—a find like this would be a sin to waste. She had needs, Javan had his mother and Tamar her children to think of. 

Before her, the boy started stirring. The movements were slight, quite like those of a dreaming child. Not wanting to wake him, Illyna turned to Javan and raised her hands. She grabbed her wrist, indicating he should fetch the irons. The boy was dangerous, and it was best if he came bound, least he tried to escape.

Or kill them.

***

Combat.

The world of a gladiator was combat: true in the red sands, and practice to prepare for it. It was all the boy knew. His first memory was of violence, of pain—causing it and receiving it. Bitter irony tinged his thoughts now—his fondest memory was of a moment when he had nearly died, of a thousand lacerations and their sting, of being stabbed and cut… After that, he did not remember being free. Though the concept brought a set of other, more abstract associations. In the end what mattered was that: life was pain and freedom was the choice between fighting through the agony, or letting it consume you. 

Now, the only freedom he had was the freedom to die. Still, even so, he could choose better than those he fought with and slept among. Unlike them, he did not know the kiss of the Nails. They did not buzz in his mind, driving him towards violence. His ferocity was already unquestioned. His strength prodigious. And his age did not matter.

He was Angron, the child-gladiator. 

Almost without conscious thought, he twisted out of the way of the other gladiator. She towered over him—she towered almost everyone. Veins stood out on her arms and neck as she heaved her heavy mace, but she was too slow. Before she could take another swing, he had kicked her legs out from under her.

He had been carefully not to break them—it was growing more difficult not to cause permanent harm with every day. Still, the gladiatrix toppled over like a felled tree, a string of curses mixed with pained hisses leaving her mouth, as he retreated to the side of the arena, just as he had been taught. This was only a sparring, with no audience that would demand blood. He’d have ample opportunity to break bones and spill vital fluids on another day.

A thin slave-child passed him a cup of water. Though he did not feel particular thirst, he accepted it. There was no reason for him not to, and he didn’t want his masters to realize he was more resilient to thirst than the other gladiators. Let them think he needed as many breaks as they did. He sipped the tepid liquid, and watched his brothers and sisters practice their own skills. He smelled blood around him and heard clang of weapons, and screams of his brothers and sisters. The water tasted of copper.

The sands would drink well today, despite the lack of screaming audience. 

Angron’s fist balled over the cup, causing it crumple and crack as if were made from a much less durable material than metal. That his brothers and sisters would die for the enjoyment of others caused his choler to rise, and only with the greatest effort could he stop himself from mindlessly lashing out. If he did, it would change little…

No. Once he did lash out, it would have to be a beginning of a new era, not a futile gesture of an angry child.

***

The world Ala’ra had known for the five years of her life had started crumbling shortly after her birthday. Her father and mother both looked different—strained and nervous, when they thought she couldn’t see them. Her nanny had disappeared, as well as a number of servants. The food had become simpler.

She had heard the name Angron murmured with fear, and she caught snatches of conversations where the words “revolt” were falling freely and frequently. Though she was young and did not understand what exactly was eating away her security, she knew there was something terrible lurking in the shadows. Her dreams were filled with blood-covered monsters, and shadows coming to life for weeks before all fell apart.

Her mother woke her up early in the morning, and when Ala’ra complained she wanted to sleep gave her a brittle smile that made the girl want cry. She smelled smoke, and heard a shouting coming from outside. She whimpered and sniffled, “I’m scared!”

For a moment, she found herself in a tight embrace. Then, once she was calm again, her mother withdrew. Behind her, her father was standing. His smile was equally false.

“You will be safe, love,” he said. “Bad people… want to hurt us, and that’s why we have to hide you. Once everything is okay and the bad people are gone, we will come back for you.”

“Eunike will take you with her,” her mother said, placing her be-ringed plump hand on the meaty shoulder of the cook. “You will play pretend with her—everybody has to think you’re her niece.”

Ala’ra looked at the woman, who offered her another fake smile. There was fear in all the adults, coiled like a small animal wanting to bolt. 

“I don’t want to!” Ala’ra protested. She wanted things to be like they were. She wanted her nanny back. The world should not refuse to accommodate to her—it had before, hadn’t it? 

“Eunike, please,” she heard her mother whisper. 

The large woman gathered her into her arms. She smelled of soap and food mostly, with a hint of sweat. Unlike her nanny or her mother. There was no perfume on her. 

Ala’ra kicked her and bit her arm, but the strong arms never let her go, as she was carried out. The last glimpse she had of her parents was her mother turning away and her father hiding his face in his hands.

***

Somebody always started a fire. Angron had come to expect it. There was something cleansing about it—the flames took all away, leaving only ashes. This time, though, he was quite certain it had been accident. There was always something that could be knocked over.

He wasn’t sure why it annoyed him—was it the waste of resources, or was it simply that as much as he would never reject his brothers and sisters, they would always remain unruly? Or perhaps, it was the fact that he no longer simply led them? That he had people who had never bled on the red sands under his command, and though they were willing to fight his war, they still had no proven themselves?

Still, the fire was a symptom of a larger, underlying problem. He had the hearts of his army: he knew they’d follow him to the death, but he had little control over it, once he let it loose. And this would not do, if he wanted to achieve something. In fact, he should not call them an army at all. They were a mob, and sheer charisma, or the righteousness of their cause would not teach them control. 

There was a crack, as the mansion started falling apart. The flames had finally damaged its structure, and the roof had collapsed. Soon, more would follow, until only the blackened walls would remain. 

Angron gnashed his teeth. The paperskins that called it home did not deserve a grand funeral pyre like this. Next time, he would lead an army. Next time, the true reckoning would start. 

***

The former rulers of Nuceria stood before Angron. Once, they would have watched him bleed and for them, but today, he was the master, and their fates were in his hands. He wondered if they feared what they had taught him. Certainly, they knew terror—he smelled it in their sweat, heard in their breathing and saw it in their eyes. 

Their regime was over, and they were all that remained of the cancer that was eating the world that had born them. Without them, the planet would have a future. There would be no slaves. There would be no Nails. The red sands would dry out. 

“You need us,” one of the paperskins said. He tried to keep his voice firm, but it faltered nevertheless—the plea for mercy was there, even if it was meant to disguised as a statement. “Without us, there will be anarchy. Chaos. Let us live, and we will help you bring order back.”

His first instinct was to smash the wretch’s head. How dare he beg for his life? How dare he call his injustice order?

And yet, he reined his choler. It was no easy task—deep in his bones, he knew what he had been bred to kill, and violence came naturally to him, just as breathing. But he was more than this. For those that called him their liberator, he was a symbol. If he showed no self control, neither would they. If he’d strike now, when he had promised justice, he’d be shatter what he had been striving for. There could be no true freedom, if one could not speak.

As he pushed his anger away, he weighed the words of the high rider. 

They needed their skills. That was true—his brothers and sisters would forever remain trained killers. Those that had joined later came from the hives, and the farms, but at best, they were factoria-overseers. They had no idea about economy, or politics.

But did this mean they had to keep the bastards alive? There were other ways to learn—ways that not involve trusting people, who knew they would die once they had nothing left to teach. 

“I’d risk chaos, rather than trust you,” he growled. “You were slavers. You watched us die, and none of you ever tried to bring and end to it. We had to do it on our own. And now, we will rule ourselves without you. We will do what you were never fit to do.”

Those he led may have had no knowledge of governing a world, but he did. Just like secrets of machines, chemistry and physics had all been locked in his mind and waited to be used, so were thousands of political theories. And what he knew, he could teach.

 

“That’s your justice, you over-grown bastard?” the woman next to the first speaker shrieked. She had been an officer, judging by her dirty and torn uniform. Angron let her speak, his hand up to stall any attempts at violence. The fact that she had enough courage to insult him, deserved some credit. “That’s why we should have had Nails put in your brain too! I hope you all burn! I hope you will see everything fall apart!”

“You will all die,” Angron replied. “I care little if you think I’m unfair, but know this—this world will neither wither, not burn in your absence. It will become something you would never have imagined. And you will never see it.”

For the first time, since the proceeding had started, he smiled. "We will build a world order that is not built on the blood of the innocent."

"What about all the innocent you butchered? About our children who never did anyone any harm? About those who never watched a fight and who spent their days protesting in the streets? This new empire of yours is built on their blood, just as it is on ours." The officer’s tirade ended when she took a step forward, only for a gladiator’s sword to bar her way.

Angron’s smile faltered. Had he not thought the same at times? When did justice end, and vengeance start? But then, he knew the answers to those words—he had answered his own doubts many times.

“If we had not acted, nothing would have changed,” he said. “Perhaps, one day, you’d all have had an epiphany and changed your ways. But before that more blood would have been spilled. Or perhaps it would have kept on flowing forever. But this ends today. There never was another choice we could have made.”

"That was what we said, when we decided Blood and Circuses was the only way to keep the peace. You are no better than we are and soon you will learn that," the first speaker joined. His voice had grown stronger, and there was something in the expressions of his companions that showed they weren’t feeling as powerless as before. This was something they understood, what they had been trained to do. Likely, they had read books and written them on how right they were.

"Say whatever makes you feel better about yourself," Angron spat.

"It's us versus them,” the officer hissed spitefully. “Always. And it always justifies blood. You think you break the cycle? Think again. Politics is about friends and foes and the one who is the most ruthless wins. You won. But don't think you are better. You beat us at our game."

Angron snorted. Again, he had to fight himself to stay calm. Did they truly think those words could make him reconsider? Or perhaps they wanted to goad him, to strike them and show himself to be a savage? In that case he would disappoint them.

“Those are your rules, not mine. You might claim to know me, but you don't. Only the future will show if I am better than you. And that is a future you will not see. Go to your deaths with that knowledge. You will never see how wrong you were and how guilty that makes you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Angron learns cleaning up never ends.
> 
> Also, before you point it out--the flagship of the World Eaters was called Adamant Resolve, before it was called the Conqueror. And I decided with how Angron has developed he might find the name Conqueror to be one that sends the wrong message. I'm pretty sure no one will mention it makes little sense when you're Legion is called World Eaters.

It was as if there was something important he could almost recall, but whenever he tried to reach for it, it would retreat into the depths of his consciousness. The sensation was disconcerting for one that never forgot—he could remember the pain of his awakening from the crashed pod, and every hit he landed on the alien raiders on the first day of his life—and yet now, there was something he ought to know, but didn’t.

 

Suddenly, he rose from his chair, nearly turning over his desk. Data slates and paper scattered away from his hands, but he paid them no heed. Swiftly, almost as if charging at the door, he marched out of the room that now served as his office—he, Angron, the gladiator, had an office and had been using it for years, which never ceased to amaze him.

 

He wasn’t a gladiator at all any more.

 

Sunlight warmed his face and shoulders, as he stepped out of the building. As always when he appeared, a ring of petitioners appeared. No matter how much he tried, he could never convince people not to treat him like some sort of a supernatural hero. It still irked him, and on this day in particular.

 

He looked up, half expecting to find something in the sky. For a moment, it seemed empty, and then… then, he noticed that there was something. A shape up high, one that likely no one else would notice. There was something large in the orbit.

 

When a young man rushed out to announce there were people from an Imperium of Mankind coming to Nuceria, Angron was hardly surprised at all.

 

***

 

Had it just been an Imperium of Mankind that found Nuceria matters would have been easier. It would have been politics—nothing personal. But life was never so easy. The man who named himself the Emperor of Mankind, also claimed to be Angron’s father. The sun reflected from the golden plates of his armour, making him almost glow. Angron had to squint to look at him. A trickle of sweat dripped down his back, and his scalp itched under the mass of dreadlocks. The Emperor seemed unbothered, as if he had been born from the sun and the heat.

 

The air smelled of fuel, likely from the golden craft that brought the men in golden armour. Under his feet, through his sandals, Angron felt how hot the surface was. It was not a day for standing around in the sun and discussing politics.

 

Angron swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. His mind was full of questions, buzzing like angry flies around a carcass.

 

“Why didn’t you come earlier?”

 

“Why did you abandon me?”

 

“I don’t need a father any more.”

 

“Are you trying to blind me with this armour?”

 

“Can we get inside before we drown in my sweat?”

 

But he never said any of it. Those were the words of a child that had long ago drowned in blood. The slave-boy clutching his axe tightly and watching his brothers and sisters die for the enjoyment of others. But the bitter child had grown up long ago, and learned that the world does not revolve around his needs and wants.

 

So, instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”

 

It earned him an arched eyebrow, followed by a warm smile. The man who called himself Emperor and Angron’s father shook his head, and said, “I’ve had too many for them to have any value.”

 

“A man without a name has no identity,” Angron replied. “A man who will not tell his name to his son, does not trust his son.”

 

“Than there is two of us,” the Emperor answered, an undertone of chiding in his voice. “You do not trust me, and will not call me father.”

 

It was a valid observation, though Angron wondered if the man was trying to turn the tables on him, and make him lose his footing in the discussion. So, instead of trying retaliate with an accusation, he opted to use the simple truth instead.

 

“I’ve just met you,” he replied. “I… know that I carry your genetic material, but that does not make you my father. My fathers and mothers died, while you were away. Perhaps it’s not your fault. I don’t know. Perhaps one day I will call you father. Not today.”

 

The Emperor looked at him. It felt odd to find himself under such scrutiny, and with a start, Angron realized he expected others to be in awe with him. But now, now he was before someone who was something more than he was: buried under the ancient rubble of a tower that had once scraped the skies, being crushed by the weight of stones that ought to have crumbled to dust long ago.

 

Then, the sense of being dissected and valued passed, and Angron could reason again.

 

“I see,” the Emperor said, and Angron fought the urge to shudder.

 

***

 

He did not stay for long on Nuceria. There had been no great celebrations to mark the day on which the planet officially joined the Imperium of Mankind. The XIIth was not a man given to ostentation, it seemed, and insisted that a public address by him and the Emperor would be enough. The Master of Mankind agreed—it was Angron’s planet, not his. The newly rediscovered Primarch would know best.

 

The day had passed, and Angron was becoming acquainted with his Legion aboard the Adamant Resolve. The Emperor saw no reason to accompany him during this—his son did not need to be held by his hand. Instead, he had retreated to the Imperator Somnis to consider his next steps.

 

In the end, he thought he had reasons to be satisfied with Angron. How he had conquered Nuceria may have not been ideal, but it had been efficient, and ruling a world seemed to have disabused him of some illusions at least. But he had made all of his sons to be strong-minded creatures, and so there were other naïve views that Angron had managed to cling to, which would make it harder for him to lead his Legion.

 

However, that could be remedied.

 

The man, who called himself the Emperor of Mankind, rose from an ornate chair, he had been occupying. He picked up a dataslate from his desk, fingers brushing against the ancient scarred wood. It was a solid piece of furniture with a long history. A lot of it was irrelevant, like the “But Mona Lisa just keeps on smiling” someone had scratched out with a nail ages ago on the wooden surface.

 

The display of the dataslate flickered to life, and a tree of data bloomed to life. Names of various Astartes of the War Hounds built a complex spider-web. Once he clicked on a name, more data appeared—noteworthy battles, won duels…

 

All of this would be provided to Angron as well. One could not lead a Legion if they did not know those he led. He would grow more experienced, but it did not guarantee that he would learn the lessons he needed to.

 

People said that some lessons one had to learn on his own, but rarely did they mention that there were those that one could only learn from others. The question he truly needed to consider was who would be the suitable teacher.

 

He put the dataslate down, and started toying with the old worn ring on his pinky finger. The Sagittary was worn, barely visible, but still there… Almost unconsciously, he smiled—he could not help but to remember Horus, with all his enthusiasm and easy charm. But as fond as he was of his Dreadful Sagittary, he had to admit that he would not be the best choice. Undoubtedly, he would win Angron in the end—had he not befriended Mortarion already? But it would take time to convince the former gladiator that he was more than a privileged child.

 

The same reasons forced him to discard Fulgrim—the Phoenician’s charm was urbane, cultured, and Angron had been taught to associate ornamentation and sophistication with idleness and weakness.

 

No, charm would not win Angron. Something else would be needed, and the Emperor thought he knew who’d be the right one.

 

***

 

Wryly, Angron thought that some things never changed. The XIIth Legion might have been transhuman, but they were an army, and they needed to be addressed. They needed to see their new leader, and hear from him where they would be headed.

 

There would be changes.

 

His eyes roamed over the enormous chamber, where almost all of the Astartes on _Adamant Resolve_ had gathered to listen to him. Save for the figures in blue and white, it was empty, its only adornment the banners with the emblems of the War Hounds and the Army regiments that fought at their side on the walls. A collared hound reared on many of them; a proud proclamation of blind devotion. The same symbol stood proudly on every left pauldron of the men gathered before him.

 

“You have searched for me, and you have found me,” he said. All the eyes in the cavernous chamber were on him, staring with the same hope and wonder. Like children to a father. “From today on, the XIIth is no longer without a Primarch. I will lead you, so that we may liberate worlds from the misguided and the xeno.”

 

He cast his gaze across the chamber once again, noting that the attention directed at him did not waver. Each and every Astartes watched him with undivided attention, their gazes keen, their posture indicating he was the most important being for them. “But you will not come to all those worlds as attack dogs, shackled and unleashed by a distant master. You are human, and you will think for yourselves. You will evaluate, you will question. I do not want hounds at my heel, I want human beings at my side.”

 

There was a dissonance between his words and what he was about to do, but an army could not be lead by committee. It needed orders, it needed one leader at its head. Nevertheless, he did not intend to let this reality become an excuse to shackle others to himself. Especially not beings as eager to do as much at the mere word from him.

 

“When I lead my brothers and sisters on Nuceria, those who stood against us had called us Eaters of Cities. They saw us as blind force, destroyers and killers—but in the end, we have brought them to justice and shown that those who destroy can also create.”

 

Though none of the Legionnaires had uttered a word since he had started speaking, somehow the chamber had grown even more silent. There was an expectation, an uncertainty in the air like an electric current running through all of the gathered warriors before him.

 

“This is why, you will no longer be War Hounds, but World Eaters,” he said. “Let it be a name that those unfit to rule and join the Imperium fear, and one that will fill those that need us with a hope for a better future.”

 

The warriors before him crossed their hands on their chests, making the sign of Aquila. They accepted his decision without questions or protest, and though the Emperor had told him he could rename his Legion, and that the other Primarchs had done so too, he still felt a pang of unease.

 

Just how easy was it to become a tyrant, if no one ever questioned you?

 

***

 

The _Imperator Somnis_ left the system first, the Emperor’s own fleet following behind. Incandescent light spilled into the Materium, as the Warp was torn open and bathed the ships of the 13 th Expeditionary Fleet in its unreality. Like a pack of hounds following their master’s command, the _Adamant Resolve_ and her companion vessels powered into the Warp gate.

 

Though her viewports were hidden behind screens that shielded the crew from gazing into the unreality of the Immaterium, Angron’s attention was fixed on one of them as they translated. Just moments ago, the world that had shaped him and which he had shaped in turn had been there, spinning in the darkness.

 

The Emperor had told him that were uncountable others that were just like Nuceria had been. Mankind was at the brink—a push, and it would be forgotten. A shove, and it would rise above all else.

 

He thought of the slender xenos raiders that had tried to end his life just as it had begun. He had destroyed them instead, but he still could easily imagine what happened with those that had neither his strength nor resilience.

 

 _United we stand, divided we fall_.

 

How many times did Mankind repeat those words? And yet, they rang true now—and though he could not put his full trust in the Emperor, he was going to stand by him.

 

He turned away from the viewport and looked around the bridge. He wasn’t sure what made him think back to the trial of the High Riders—perhaps the decorative uniform of the ships’s captain? Would he have ruled differently today, and chosen to let them live as a necessary evil? Without the knowledge of economy, of law, of so many other complex concepts, the people of Nuceria had to stumble blindly, and learn what those in power had been taught as children for generations. Without them, there was chaos. They had to learn that just growing food was not enough to feed all. That those who only knew violence would not throw it away, and without an enemy without would find one within to turn upon. Those who had suffered, kept on lashing out at those who had not or had suffered less.

 

The fall of the new order had not been a seamless transition into a new one. Its children turned upon each other, seeking to take out their frustrations and quarrels in the guise of tearing the remains of the High Riders rule.

 

The woman had been right, all those years ago. There was blood on his hands—of his brothers and sisters, who died in battle, and later took their own lives, having lost the one reason to live they had. Of those who starved, and of those killed for having more than the others. Perhaps if he’d let a few of the High Riders live, the tally of his revolution would not have been as large.

 

He did not know the answer, nor did could he tell if he was making the right choice or the wrong. All that was left to him was to move forward and see where the road he had chosen would lead him. 


	3. Chapter 3

After a week on Terra, Angron was starting to suspect mankind invented space travel to escape from it. It was a silly impression, one he logically knew to be completely inaccurate, and yet he could not shake it off. The world was barren, and though he refused to dismiss the whole population by calling it dead, there was a sense of... heaviness? Suffocating weight of history, almost like the feeling he had when he found himself under the gaze of the Emperor.

He would soon leave it, though. There were other worlds like Nuceria, where those in power had built a system that abused it, and then there were those, where xenos had made slaves of the humans. Though he could not bring himself to call the Emperor his father, he had to accept that the galaxy needed to be remade, and the Emperor had a vision of how to do it. And if Angron joined, if he led his Legion, he could influence this vision. Push it into the right direction.

However, those were plans for the future, and before he would be able to start realizing them, he had to get through other things. Apparently, even if one created a set of generals and implanted the appropriate knowledge, they still needed an apprenticeship. It did make sense—the IIIrd—Fulgrim, for example, had been some sort of an administrator, and hadn’t conquered a thing, before the Emperor had rediscovered him. The VIIIth—Konrad Curze—who had been discovered just before Angron—had done the conquering on his own, and had not commanded any armies.

And he would not be building something from scratch, like he had on Nuceria—his World Eaters were soldiers, already. They knew discipline and if told not to burn houses down, they would obey. The difference would take some time to get used to, and having someone who already knew the ropes sounded like a good idea.

The IXth was supposed to meet him in one of the three hundred Green Rooms of the Imperial Palace. Hopefully, he wouldn’t check every of them in search of Angron, who had been brought to it by one of the golden-armoured Custodes. 

He turned away from one of the large windows, overlooking grey clouds, and turned to his… honour guard, he supposed. Gheer, the Legion Master, was still standing to attention and made Angron think of some sort of a bulky ugly attack dog. He even had the heavy jowls, though, thankfully, he didn’t drool. 

Kunnar, the 1st Company Champion, was simply pacing restlessly. The room had been clearly made with Primarchs in mind, so despite the fact that he was in power armour, he had enough free space to turn. If Gheer was dog-like in his appearance, than Kunnar was more of a large armoured lizard, with hooded eyes and skin as pale as fish’s belly.

And then, there was the Eight Captain Kharn, who earned his place by means of lottery. Having not seen them in a fight, Angron had no idea how else to determine who would earn the apparently enormous honour of standing around like an idiot and being bored out of their skull with him. 

Kharn had found himself a spot out of Gheer’s and Kunnar’s way, and was busily studying a dataslate, his bronze, horse-like face creased in concentration.

Angron peered over Kharn’s head. He couldn’t see too much, but he thought it was a file. 

“Our main fleet has not fought beside the Blood Angels yet,” Kharn said looking up. He handed Angron the dataslate. “I thought I could find out some more about them before we meet.”

“And what did you learn?” Angron asked, ignoring the proffered dataslate. 

Kharn said, “Their primary fiefdom is Baal along with it’s two moons: Baal Primus and Baal Secunds. All are death worlds. Their Primarch—Sanguinius-”

“Really?” Angron asked, arching his eyebrows. “He changed the name of his Legion to match his?”

Gheer shook his head. “That seems unlikely—had it happened, we’d have heard rumours, sir.”

“Anyway,” Kharn said, glancing back at the data slate, “he’s from Baal Secundus. They’re assault focused, like we are—I suppose we never had campaigns together for fear we’d end up getting in each other’s ways.”

“Double the amount of Astartes trying to hack things,” Kunnar chuckled nodding to the Eight Captain’s words. “I suppose the Emperor decided with two Primarhs we won’t get into ‘who cuts up more enemies of mankind’ contests.”

“Or he wants to find out what happens if I get in such a contest with another of my kind,” Angron said with a half-smile. 

He did not have a chance to hear what else Kharn’s dataslate had on the Blood Angels or the other Primarch, nor to continue the conversation. The door slid open, and Angron came face to face with another Primarch for the first time. 

The first thing he noticed were the wings. Enormous white pinions, adorned with chains of gold and pearls. A few rubies glinted here and there, and another one rested on the newcomers forehead. Black hair spilled unto his pauldrons—his armour was golden, and the skin of some large beast was draped over it. 

Wings and golden armour aside, Sanguinius was the most beautiful man Angron had seen in his life. He wasn’t certain he would have thought they had a common sire, had he not been told before.

In his hands, Sanguinius had a metal box. Its was large, and decorated with subtle floral patterns. 

Behind him, entered three Astartes. One of them stood out by virtue of having armour that bore many scars of battle and a sandy blond beard. The other one in red armour had a gaunt, solid face and a grey-white braid. Finally, there was one in golden armour. His hair was long and dark, while his face made Angron think of a stuck-up horse.

“Brother,” Sanguinius said, inkling his head. “I’m glad to be able to finally meet you.”

Angron nodded back. “Welcome,” he replied. He was not certain if he was glad to see the other Primarch yet—they had just met after all. For all he knew, they could end up hating each others guts after the first pleasantries.

Despite his lukewarm greeting, Sanguinius’s smile did not falter. He stepped closer and offered the box to Angron. “I made this for you. Since I didn’t know what you would like, I thought I’ll make something practical, and everyone needs a solid box.”

Suddenly, his earlier hesitation seemed churlish—Sanguinius obviously was glad to find another of his brothers. Happy enough to give him something despite not knowing him at all, and even made it on his own. He was not sure how to react.

“Go on,” Sanguinius chuckled. “Look inside.”

Hesitantly, he opened the box. Inside, there were books, carefully packed so that none of them get damaged. The names seemed strangely familiar, though he had never learned any of them: Locke, Hobbes, du Tocquville, Marrana and more.

“Horus—our brother—recommended them to me just after I had been rediscovered,” he explained. “They’re mostly political philosophy. While I’ve learned a lot uniting the tribes of Baal Secundus, it did not prepare me for dealing with all the complexities of the politics of the Great Crusade.”

Carefully, Angron closed the box, and put it down. Then, free to follow his impulse, he embraced Sanguinius. “I’m glad to meet you too, brother.”

***

Fighting against someone who matched him and strength and skill was a new experience. Measuring his mettle against someone who had an additional pair of limbs was a challenge. Angron stumbled back, blood dripping from his nose, as Sanguinius turned, folding his wings. 

“You didn’t warn me you could do that,” he said, only half-serious. Battared as he was, he couldn’t help but to grin—this was exciting. Invigorating. What combat should be—not something for the rich to gawk at, now a matter of bets, but a contest between equals to gauge another’s measure.

“Now, now, what would be the point of them, if I couldn’t hit things with them?” Sanguinius chuckled. His grin was surprisingly feral, at odds with the previous smiles—those had been gentler, and showed none of his teeth. Now, Angron saw the flash of fangs, as his brother spoke.

“Additional place to hang baubles on?” Angron replied, swinging his axe. Sanguinius dodged, and brought his sword into a guard position.

“I could ask Ferrus Manus to build me a jewelry rack for that,” he answered, as he moved into offensive. With two swift jabs, he tested Angron’s guard, but he saw through Sanguinius’s plan to herd him into a corner and responded with strikes of his own.

“Ask him to make a wire-ribbon for them instead,” Angron shot back. “One of my sisters used to braid one into her hair. You would not want to grab that.”

“What an ingenious idea,” Sanguinius replied, arching his eyebrows. He parried Angron’s attack, smoothly sliding into attack. However, his strike was faint, only aimed to get himself closer. With blinding speed, his hand shot out and he grabbed a fistful of red dreadlocks. “I should have used it yourself.”

Angron grunted in annoyance. It should have occurred to him that someone might actually grab them, now that there were people who could actually reach his hair. But such thoughts were useless. Instead of spending more time regretting not having thought everything through, Angron slammed his fist into Sanguinius’s midriff. His brother stumbled back, winded, but he did not let go of Angron’s hair. He pulled him along, forcing him to bend awkwardly, so he charged, head first.

This time, his brother could not dodge—he was still reeling from the previous attack. Angron caught him, and the momentum carried them nearly into the wall. Sanguinius managed to stop him, his wings beating, as he put his whole strength in resisting Angron. He had not imagined they would be so loud, and he felt the air whistle around him every time the might pinions moved. 

For a moment, they stood like this, each trying to push the other, and at the same time keep his footing. Then, they broke away. Their chests rose and fell in the same elevated rhythm, and grins split their faces. Before, Angron had seen little similarity between him and Sanguinius, but now… now he could see it. 

“I had not had so much fun in a long time,” Sanguinius said, assuming a more relaxed stance. 

“So, the other Primarchs are duller than me?” Angron asked, massaging his scalp. 

“I would not say that,” his brother replied, shaking his head. “But we have rarely opportunity to meet, and even less to test ourselves against one another. The Great Crusade keeps us apart. It is rare enough that the full force of a whole Legion is needed, let alone that of several at once.”

“It is… odd to call people so far away, whom I have never met, my family,” Angron replied, hesitating just for a moment. He wasn’t sure how his brother would react—would he be upset Angron had not been as glad to be his brother as he had been?

Sanguinius looked at him thoughtfully. For a moment, he was silent, introspective. “In time, you will learn to know all of us,” he finally replied.


	4. Chapter 4

The Red Tear’s interior was opulent. Gold, jewels, frescoes and statues lined the walls, and once Angron looked up, he noticed the ceilings were equally richly decorated. Still, somehow, all the works of art did not overshadow one another, although Angron suspected the line was very close. 

“You look skeptical,” Sanguinius said, as he offered Angron a goblet of wine. 

He accepted the golden vessel, noting the fine embossing that decorated it. Partially hidden by his fingers, tiny winged warriors wrestled giant scorpions.

“That’s not a decoration I’d expect on a drinking vessel,” Angron replied. 

Sanguinius looked at the embossed figures, his expression distant. “It’s not very accurate. I had been but a child, when it happened.” He took another goblet, one decorated with small garnets, and poured wine for himself. “I left the camp of my tribe—I had been curious what is over the dunes, and I found a nest of scorpions.” A dreamy smile played on his lips as he spoke. “There are so many ways to prepare a scorpion. I will have to treat you to it someday.”

Angron eyed the goblet again. “Is hunting for scorpions a common past-time?”

“Oh, no, they’re this big,” Sanguinius indicated somewhere above his knee, “and very vicious. Had anyone known we’re close to their territory, we would have not made camp in the area.”

Angron nodded, and took a sip of the wine. It was one of the heavier ones, but it lacked sweetness. A good vintage, he supposed, but he wondered what the point of drinking it was, if one could not get drunk. 

“How was it to grow up on Baal Secundus?” he asked. “Aside from the scorpions.”

Sanguinius shrugged. “It wasn’t easy,” he replied. “And it was dangerous—many of the things that made human lives easier were destroyed or forgotten, and the surface is irradiated. Many of my tribespeople died of cancer. Others were eaten, or killed by bands of mutants.” He paused, looking into his goblet. “But it was not impossible. The tribes look out for their own, and they accepted the Imperium willingly.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier, if they were united?” Angron asked. 

Sanguinius nodded his expression wistful. “It would. But the Imperium needs strong warriors, and the tribes provide exceptional candidates for the Blood Angels. As much as it pains me, until the Great Crusade is concluded, I should not risk that changing the world will make them less suitable.”

“And what makes them better recruits?” Angron asked. 

“They know life is harsh,” Sanguinius replied, still looking as wistful as before. “Even children know how to fight, and how to kill. They are savage warriors.”

Angron looked past Sanguinius. If it was brutality and bloodlust that made for good Astartes, then he could easily think of suitable candidates. Nuceria used to have plenty of them, and perhaps, had he not managed to throw away his chains, the World Eaters would have new brothers and sisters in their midst.

“I could not have done this,” he said firmly. “Before I rebelled, there had been gladiatorial games on Nuceria. The warriors that fought in the arenas were savage too, but they were slaves. I couldn’t give them freedom—not after the Nails. There was no way to remove them, and once you felt their kiss, you would only know rage. Everything else would fade. Even if it had been their choice, I wouldn’t agree.”

Sanguinius looked like he was about to say something, but Angron was not done. “Your reasons are bullshit, brother. You can teach anyone to be a warrior—you don’t need them to kill giant scorpions as children just because you had to.

"If you put them up against the wall, everyone will fight. If you take away the fear of consequences, they will be savage. It's human nature. I always found it takes much more strength and will not to fight."

"But not everyone is strong enough to survive transformation into an Astartes. The harsh circumstances on Baal weed out those too weak to survive." Sanguinius frowned.

Angron laughed. "And all those clever Apothecaries can't do that? Besides, if they are too weak then they die. Don't tell me there isn't a mortality rate with your recruits, too." He turned the goblet in his fingers.

“I should have thought of this on my own,” Sanguinius said, after a moment of silence. 

“Yes, you should have,” Angron said. “But what we should and what we do, can be two different things.”

Sanguinius nodded, putting his goblet away. “Even such as we can be blinded by what we have learned to be the nature of life. It can makes us blind to the fact that what we experience is not always the only way—and not even right, at times.” He regarded Angron for a moment solemnly, and then a gentle smile tugged at his lips. “You are an example we should follow, brother, to have managed to overcome this limitation.”

Angron shook his head. “I learned it by being a stubborn idealistic moron, who didn’t understand human nature at all. Learn from my example, but don’t repeat my mistakes.”

Sanguinius’s smile grew, gaining a mischievous edge. “Don’t worry on this account, brother. I read the books I gave you—I know which ideas are beautiful in theory, but terrible in practice.”

***

“I could have guessed it was going to be orks,” Kharn said. 

In the pit before him, Amit was demonstrating that the title of the Fifth Captain of the Blood Angels had gone to a truly savage warrior. Shinnargen was doing his best to prove that the World Eaters had nothing to be ashamed of in this department either, which resulted in a lot of snarling, yelling and bleeding. 

The Blood Angel next to him—someone from the Second Company—glanced in his direction, and grinned, “Because no other xenos would keep us all amused?”

“If you are amused by orks, you have a very poor sense of humour,” Kagos grunted. 

“Don’t bait,” Kharn sighed. “Just challenge him.”

The Apothecary gave him a look that was probably meant to imply he was ruining his fun, but it simply didn’t work with his face. The Blood Angel sniggered. Kagos grinned, and Kharn felt like shaking his head.

“I’ve never been good at subtle,” the Blood Spitter stated, his teeth still bared in mirth. 

A collective shout drowned the answer of the Blood Angel—Kharn turned his head in time to see that, Amit and Shinnargen were now on the ground, wrestling. Then, suddenly, the World Eater roared in shock and pain, and tore himself away from Amit’s grip. His ear was bleeding profusely, and when Amit rose to his feet, he spat something fleshy out.

“Flesh Tearer, huh?” Kagos said, his voice betraying awe. 

Shinnargen picked himself up. The blood was already starting to scab, thanks to the Laraman cells in it. The World Eater wiped some of the blood of his cheek, as he gave Amit a long measuring look. Then, a savage grin split his face. 

The fight was clearly far from over.

“So, orks…” Kagos said, after a moment. “There has to be a lot of them, wherever we’re going.”

Kharn shrugged, turning his head towards the Apothecary. “Apparently, one of them was smart enough to find its own arse without a map, and figured out how point the rest at several planets.”

“Blitzklaw, was it?” the Blood Angel said. “Orks tend to have really ridiculous names, don’t they?”

This time both Kagos and Kharn shrugged. “As long as they line up nicely so I can kill them, I don’t care,” the Apothecary said baring his teeth in another grin.

“You’re very monothematic, you know?” Kharn sighed. “And shut up, if they start insulting each other I want to know if I can learn something new.”

He almost felt Kagos roll his eyes. The Blood Angel sniggered again.

***

The ork blinked stupidly, and looked down at his chest. The tip of Raging Heart—Kagos’s spear—was jutting from it. Suddenly, the weapon was withdrawn with a hard tug, and blood gushed out of the wound. The creature slumped to the ground, coughing blood and cursing, unable to comprehend why it could no longer move. It was simply too dumb to understand its spine had been severed. Kagos ended its gurgling guttural tirade by stepping on its head. It broke with a sickening crunch, blood and brain-matter splattering over his armoured foot.

With a half-disgusted, half-disappointed snarl the Apothecary trampled over the orkish carcass, as he ran towards a prone body in white and blue. Gore stained the dented armour, and the Astartes was missing a leg from the knee down. Worse, he had stopped cursing a few minutes ago, and his rune was pulsing yellow on Kagos’s display.

It took only a few more steps from the Apothecary to reach the fallen Astartes. He knelt down next to him, and quickly started inspecting him for further trauma. The breathing was labored, accompanied by unpleasant gurgling—clearly, something was not right with his lungs. With practiced efficiency, Kagos started working on making sure the World Eater lived until he was transported to the Apothecarion. 

He needed to be quick—he could hear the battle rage around him, his battle brothers clashing with orks around him, and there was already more in need of aid. His hands moved surely and quickly, and he was whispering commands to the armour of the other Space Marine, getting it to inject further doses of drugs and antibiotics into his brother’s system. With every second the possibility of him getting shot or otherwise attacked was growing, and though he relished nearly every opportunity to fight, Kagos knew he was now an easy target.

Something boomed next to his foot.

A moment later, he heard the bark of a bolter above him, accompanied by the scream of a jet-pack. By the sound of it, a squad of Assault Marines was about to land. Kagos didn’t have time to check who it was, but he registered the sound of armoured feet smashing into the ground. Shadow fell over him—the Astartes had formed a protective circle around him. 

He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, but it was just something peripheral to his task. The breathing of the fallen Astartes was growing less forced by the second, and finally, Kagos looked up. 

He was surrounded by a circle of Blood Angels.

“I thought you might need a hand, Apothecary,” one of them said. 

The World Eater recognized voice—it was the Blood Angel he had talked with during the duel between Second Captain Shinnargen and Amit the Flesh Tearer.

He bared his teeth under his teeth in something between a snarl and a grin. “I’ll cut one off a greenskin if I do,” he snorted.

The Blood Angel’s chuckle was distorted by the vox. “My name is Krios, by the way. I didn’t manage to introduce myself properly.”

“Kagos,” the World Eater growled, getting up. “If you want to tag along, I don’t care. Just don’t slow me down.”


	5. Chapter 5

The cavern was dark and damp. Thoros could smell fungus, and fumes—burning wood, nothing toxic. There was a sound coming from the passage before him, like many voices in the distance speaking at once.

The Scout’s thread was soft as he snuck towards the source of the sound. His enhanced vision caught a flickering, as if a fire was burning before him. A large one, he judged. He frowned, as he realized that the smell of fungus was changing—it was being cooked. 

The voices were too quiet for orks, and not shrill enough for gretchin. The planet used to have a human population. Could it have survived an invasion of orks?

Thoros didn’t know the answer to this question, but he was aware that the answer could be illuminated by the fire before him. He stopped to listen and take a deeper breath. Slowly, he let the air out through his nose, as he focused on the sounds before him.

The voices were speaking all at once, repeating the same words—not chanting, but the cadence was very close. Thoros nodded to himself and started edging closer. He stuck to the shadows—though the owners of the voices sounded busy, he was not going to risk being discovered by potential enemies.

He could see the figures now—too small to be orks, too large for gretchin. The fire made them appear as dark silhouettes, but they were still recognizably humanoid. As close as he was, Thoros could make out the words, but he could not understand. Some seemed familiar, like a shape he had once glimpsed out of the corner of the eye.

Thoros breathed in again. This close, he could smell more—the organic matter on the ground beneath him, old blood and sweat. Both unmistakably human. 

The World Eaters’ Scout stood motionlessly for a few seconds, considering his options. What he had discovered was already of importance, and he needed to report it back. On the other hand, the gathering was… odd. Perhaps investigating further would be the wiser choice?

Carefully, he edged closer, until he could go no further without alerting the gathering. The shapes in the darkness resolved themselves into people—women, men and children all standing around a giant bonfire. Before it, a large carcass that once might have been an ork was lying, and around it the smaller forms of gretchin had been piled. 

There was something else. Something in the bonfire—he could not see it when he looked at it directly, but when he turned his face, there was a shape he could not make out in the corner of his eye. 

With a start, he realized that he knew what the gathering had been doing. They had been praying.

As soon as the thought took shape in his mind, Thoros saw the crowd turn in his direction. Over fifty pairs of eyes focused on the shadows where he had hidden. None of them made a sound, their faces suddenly blank, as if someone had ripped all humanity from them.

The moment for cold calculated thought had passed, Thoros realized, as the crowd started walking in his direction. They were moving slowly, haltingly, but all held knives in their hands. Though from their shape they did not appear to be primarily weapons, they still could be used to maim and kill—and he was just one Scout. The information he had now gathered had to get out, and fighting would be too much of a risk.

Without any further deliberations, the Scout turned and ran.

Even without power armour, he was much faster than a normal human and he could run much longer. Thoros was not worried about his chances to escape from the eerily silent mob, nor losing them, once he was outside. Not until the air started growing colder and something green crackled just next to his shoulder. Training took over, and he started zig-zagging to make himself a harder target to shoot.

Except whoever attacked him had not fired any weapon. There had been no sound of discharge, and the smell was unfamiliar, like ozone and blood instead of fecyline. 

Another bolt hit the ground next to his legs. Thoros tripped and fell, but he managed to roll and jump to his feet almost immediately. For a moment, he thought he saw something behind the silent mob—something bigger and darker, but he did not pause to take a better look. He couldn’t without risking getting caught.

The entrance to the cave was right before him—just a few more steps and he would be outside. He was still far ahead of the mob. He could outrun them and lose them—he just needed to get out.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his left leg. It buckled under his weight and he fell. The ground underneath was frozen solid, and he saw his breath mist. He tried to pick himself up, but his leg would not support his weight—it was just a useless lump of flesh and bone. 

Thoros did not make a third attempt. Instead, he rolled over and fished out a frag grenade from the webbing over his armour. With one motion of his thumb, he primed it. Then, in a fluid arc threw it at the incoming mob. 

It exploded just a fraction of a second after he threw himself back on the rock-hard ground. He heard the shrapnel hit bodies, and the corpses and wounded fall with dull thumps, as he fished out another explosive. 

The air was becoming warmer, and someone started wailing before him. A moment later, screaming and moans joined the wailing, and when Thoros looked up, he did not see a mob of puppet. The humans that had not long ago chased him in threatening silence, were now behaving like any other group of civilians after a grenade went off in their midst.

Thoros started trying to pick himself up again.

***

The Scout was handling the situation relatively well, Angron decided. Yes, he was stuttering and obviously had no idea where to look, but given that Space Marines with decades of experience sometimes forgot how to talk in the presence of one Primarch, the fact that an eighteen-years-old managed to speak with both him and Sanguinius listening to his report was quite a success.

“This sounds like a psyker,” Sanguinius mused. 

“Ork or human?” Angron asked, frowning. On the one hand, an ork psyker capable of controlling a group of humans was worrying, simply because of what it would be able to accomplish. On the other hand, if it was a human, Angron was quite certain they were not a functional member of society.

The Scout swallowed, and rubbed his elbow in a nervous gesture. 

“I didn’t see, sir,” he said quietly and ducked his head. Dark hair, that had partially slid out of a tight braid, fell over his face, hiding half of it.

Angron glanced at Sanguinius. His brother seemed to be observing him—waiting for him to draw his conclusions. Or perhaps find the right questions. It was possible that Thoros had seen something that would point them towards the answer, but did not realize the significance. He had been rather busy trying to survive, after all.

“Did you see any signs of ork presence?” Angron asked. “Sigils, weapons, corpses?”

The youth took a deep breath and focused on Angron’s elbow. After a moment of intense study, he said, “There were dead orks and gretchin there—I think they were going to eat them. It looked like a ritual?”

“That does not sound like an ork,” Angron said.

“No,” Sanguinius agreed. “Some human cultures believe that eating a fallen foe grants them their strength…”

“So, we have a psyker, who was controlling others and trying to make them as strong as orks,” Angron said. “By having them eat orks.” He snorted irritably. 

“Untrained psykers unfortunately often pose a danger not only to themselves, but to others,” Sanguinius said, shaking his head. “An unprepared human mind cannot withstand prolonged contact with the Warp.”

Angron glared at nothing in particular, digesting the information. “Let me rephrase—we have a fucking load of orks and a powerful crazy psyker on the loose?”

Sanguinius flexed his wings—he did not stretch them out fully, but rather made a motion as if he intended to spread them and changed his mind a moment later. Then, he nodded. “That’s a very succinct way to sum things up, but it does appear to be the case.”

As if it had been some sort of a signal, Angron started pacing. The motion helped him focus on the important matters: on how the new factor changed the big picture. 

“How the orks act will not change, unless they find out about the psyker,” he said. “Even if they do, it may remain the same. Their leader is big and strong, but has so far not demonstrated great tactical or strategic acumen.”

Sanguinius nodded again, but did not interrupt Angron. He seemed to want him to voice his conclusions.

“The psyker is the unknown—we can hypothesize that they will continue trying to strike at the orks, but we cannot be certain. They might as well decide we’re more of a threat to them, or divide their attention.”

Now Sanguinius shook his head. “Firstly, he—or she—might not have survived the feedback from the death of their puppets. Secondly, the latter two options are not nearly as likely as the first one. He—or she—would have only seen your scout running away. Given that the population does not appear too advance, the connection between him throwing granades and the death of the mob might not occur to him—or her.”

“That is true,” Angron admitted. “But consider this—why did they decide to chase Thoros? They would have no way of knowing if he posed a threat. This could mean there are more people hiding here, and they will not approve of whatever the psyker is doing.”

“Probably, yes,” Sanguinius replied. Absentmindly, he pushed some of his hair behind his ear. Then, his thoughtful expression shifted into one that indicated he had reached his own conclusion. “But a psyker of such power leaves a trail that another may pick up.”

Angron’s first instinct was to protest that they would be getting distracted simply because of one person, that whoever was assigned to the task would not be there to fight the orks, but he swallowed his protests. The first instinct should not be trusted without question in a situation like this. One person sounded like very little, but did not take one person to start a revolution that would change a planet? A psyker who could reliably control a group of fifty was too dangerous to be ignored.

“And once we find them?” he asked.

Sanguinius’s expression grew thoughtful. He waited a moment before replying, and when he did, he seemed regretful. “He—or she—will have to die. The risk would be too big to let them live.”


	6. Chapter 6

The world was slipping in and out of focus, as if he were deep under water. The oppressive current of aggression tinged green and full of noise had been bad enough, but he had lived with it his whole life. He knew how to live with it, and he saw how to be rid of it in him dreams. But something else came—the tide of fury and war clashed with the cold iron cliffs of orderly hate. And before them, two giants—a snarling white hound and a golden glowing figure of unparalleled beauty.

They circled around him whenever he closed his eyes, blood dripping from their fangs. He did not know what they were, unlike the green tide, or what their purpose was. Perhaps they were the result of his actions. A validation that he had been right, and that they could steal the power from the howling green beasts. 

Or the old priest had been right, and they were another sort of punishment, for not accepting his fate? 

He needed eyes that would find the iron cliff, the bright one and the hound so that he would know what they were. 

And there was something else, a feeling—like something was sniffing at his thoughts, looking at his from behind, but whenever he turned around there was nothing there. Perhaps the old priest had sent someone to look for him? 

No, it couldn't be—he learned to listen to him like everyone else. He had shared with them, and shown them the right way. He would not need to look for him... Not when his thoughts had guided him until... until everything broke down like shattered glass. he could not find them again, as if they had all disappeared.

There was only one conclusion he could reach—he needed to find others and share his vision with them.

His first few steps were stumbling and uncertain, his muscles unused to the effort. With a start, he realized that the mere act of walking was an effort. When had he grown so weak? Almost without thinking, he reached out to the power without to strengthen his limbs. He had never tried it—he had not known what the effect would be. But on his own, he would not be able to get anywhere.

But the power without did not energize him. Pain shot through his legs, like thousands of knives stabbing at once. He looked down to see his flesh writhe beneath the skin, bulging as if trying to escape from his frame. With a pained yelp, he fell to his knees and curled up, trying to bring his body under control. He reached out for more power. 

It came to him willingly, and with it came the whispers.

No, they weren't whispers. They were screams.

No.

Kill. Maim. Blood. Skulls.

Kill.

Blood.

Blood. 

***

Kano gasped and stumbled. Something had changed. Something was coming.

He glanced to his side, at his World Eater counterpart. The other Librarian was looking around wildly, ignoring the blood trickling from his nose down his lip and chin. 

“That is not good,” Kano hissed. 

“You have a gift for stating the obvious, Blood Angel,” Esca answered, as he wiped his nose with his gauntlet. “But you're right. This is not good.”

Together, as if pulled by some invisible force, they turned in the same direction. Neither could see what worried them—the ork army was in that direction, and the trail of the human psyker lead there also. It could be either, but did not feel like any of them.

Kano tasted iron, and smelled blood. And something else—a sense of pressure and of... wrongness. Something was no longer as it should be, but pin-pointing what it was exactly was just out of his reach.

***

Where the orks went, they brought death and blood. They killed all that stood in their way, and turned on each other when there was nothing else to fight. They were violence, a green tide of war that could not be contained or pacified—but they could opposed.

The creature was a thing of blood and iron, mindless, but imbued with one purpose – to kill. Driven by the most primal of instincts, it sought its prey. It did not need to look far—there were orks aplenty, ready to match its violence. The creature tore through their ranks, slaying the lesser orks and gretchin with mindless abandon. With every victim its hunger grew, and as it sought more to feed, so it changed.

Where once its mind was a thing of instinct and reflex, it became more. Simple thoughts surfaced, little more then needs given name, but they were enough for it to live a while longer, cling onto the material realm for a few minutes more—and slay more orks.

But the orks were many, and it was only one. Though stronger then most of them and more deadly, it could not win against the mass of green bodies that kept throwing themselves at it. Slowly, but surely, it was overwhelmed, torn apart by the crude weapons of the orks.

It bled.

The blood formed shallow pools on the ground, refusing to soak into the soil. Glossy and red, they rippled out of tune with the armoured feet that trampled over them. In the press and the excitement, none of the orks noticed, not even when some of their brethren were pulled under the surface. 

And then the thing fell, meat torn and hacked away from the iron frame. Around its corpse a shallow sanguine pool had formed. Waves rippled towards the metal bones, and blood flowed upwards to cover them. 

A claw twitched.

Something rose—something different than the being before. It was shapeless still—to become more it needed sustenance the kind of which the orks could not provide. But there were others, who would feed its thirst.

It swung its arm, the blood that had been dripping from it forming a whip. It whistled through the air, and cracked sharply as it connected with ork bodies. A path was cleared.

***

Sanguinius stopped abruptly. He turned west, towards where the bulk of the ork forces were. His expression darkened, and his grip on his sword tightened. 

“It's too late,” he said.

Angron nearly walked into him. He halted mere inches away, and then barely jumped back, as his brother unfurled his wings. While Angron might have been close to indestructible, he remembered well enough from their last sparring that being hit with on them still fucking hurt. 

Wind gusted around him, as Sanguinius took the air, leaving Angron behind. 

That was both puzzling and annoying—would it really be such a bother to tell him what happened before taking off? Angron gritted his teeth, just as Sanguinius's honour guard followed their primarch. 

“Does anybody know what's going on?” he growled at the nearest Space Marine. He couldn't read his expression beneath the helmet, but the Marine somehow managed to convey utter blankness, nevertheless.

“You have a vox bead, sir,” he said after a moment. “Ask lord Sanguinius?”

“He's not your lord,” Angron replied irritably, as he tried to reach his brother over the comm-device. 

It buzzed in his ear for a moment, before he heard Sanguinius's slightly distorted voice. “Apologies, brother,” he said. “But we found out about the psyker too late—he is gone, and the Warp is spilling into the materium.” There was a pause, and Angron came to the conclusion that the odd sound he heard wasn't static, but rather Sanguinius's wings beating, and the more distant noise of his bodyguards' jump packs. “Send your Librarians with mine—we still have a chance to contain this.”

Being told what to do so unceremoniously did not sit well with Angron, but he could see that the situation was dire enough to do away with niceties. Though the Warp-xenos could not survive long in the material realm, in the short time they'd manifest, they'd cause harm that would potentially render the planet inhabitable, and likely kill of any human natives that survived so far. 

Sanguinius was the one with psychic powers, and with the experience—for now, Angron would follow his lead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angron and Sanguinius find out that liking to hit things with sharp things does not mean you will agree about everything.

It was a thing of blood and iron, of bone and war. It roared, as it stumbled on legs that should not be able to support it, beating wings that could not carry it. The whip coiled around it, almost like a living being, lashing about it to clear its way.

The orks had no chance of defeating it, though they kept on trying long after it should have been clear for them they had no chance. That did not mean that their efforts were of no use—they simple were pointless for the orks themselves.

The Blood Angels and their Primarch, on the other hand, used the creatures distraction to strike. Botlers barked, followed by the hiss of plasma. The actinic glare faded, just as the Warp xeno begun to turn. With a speed that seemed impossible for a creature as large, its head twisting at an impossible angle, the being faced the oncoming assault. 

Sanguinius didn't slow down. He flew past his Sanguinary Guard, and slashed with the Blade Encarmine against the blood-shot eyes of the monstrosity. Blood fountainted—far too much then it should have—staining his face, hair and armour crimson. The creature lashed out with its whip, but the attack never reached Sanguinius. He shot up into the air almost immediatelly.

But it did not mean there were no victims. The whip smashed into Virgilio, sending him careening into the ground. His body smashed against a cluster of orks, and the tangled mass of limbs, iron and ceramite tumbled away, crashing into more greenskins. 

Blood flowed—towards the Warp creature. It trickled around its feet and up its legs.

Sanguinius noted this only peripheraly, as he struck again. Lightening-quick, he brought his blade down on the creatures whip-bearing arm. The Blade Encarmine clove through meat and bone, and the limb fell. It fell to the ground in a shower of gore, sloughing into a red puddle.

The Warp xeno stumbled, but only for a brief moment. Its remaining claw shot out, and met with Sanguinius's side. It gauged deep furrows through the metal of his armour, defacing the subtle decorations. But the attack did not have enough strength to push Sanguinius away, and he rallied immediattely. The Primarch stabbed the offending appandage, piercing it through. 

The creature roared, as it's claw wrapped around the Blade Encarmine. 

Then it let out a surprised yelp, not alike a dog may sound when hit with cold water. Ethereal lightening crackled over its body, making it jerk and spasm wildly, as if its body had neural paths which could be misfired by errant currents. The scent of burning hair and flesh filled the air—an unpleasant, chocking odour.

Sanguinius glimped red and white-and-blue figures marching towards the Warp creature. He had no time to pay attention to them—instead he slashed at at the creatures arm. His sword slashed through meat and bone again, separating the limb from the body.

The creature bellowed something, its voice sharp and unpleasant. 

The smell of blood was overwhelming.

Pleasant.

No, that was not right.

This was a mistake.

A flaw.

Sanguinius lashed out, his swing wide and wild. Nevertheless, the creature barely evaded it, maimed as it was. The ethereal lightning and flames conjured by the Librarians held it contained, unable to run. It hissed and snapped with its teeth, trying to catch Sanguinius with its teeth.

It was still swift—inhumanly so, but not quick enough. The move unbalanced it, and having not found its target, the creature toppled down like a fallen tree. The Librarians scattered from it, but not all of them had enough time. Sanguinius didn't know if their armour was enough to protect them from the weight of the Warp creature. 

The thought had barely formed, as he plunged down. His weight, in power armour no less, was a weapon in itself. The creatures cranium cracked and broke with the impact of his feet, but he stabbed viciously with the Blade Encarmine nonetheless.

Blood exploded. 

An anatomical impossibility—no creature could have so much blood.

It spasmed, and squirmed, feet kicking against the ground. The movements were spasmodic and erreatic, until they died down completely.

There was a moment of absolute stillness, and then the creature started dissolving. Sanguinius took off before he could fall, and watch the carcass disappear.

***

Sanguinius sat on a a low stool, his wings spread out wide. He was no longer in armour, though he had not changed from the suit that interfaced with it. Behind him, a pair of dark-skinned men and one woman worked on cleaning his pinions of blood, and whatever else dirtied them during battle.

“Worried that you won't be pretty enough for the orks?” Angron asked, as he entered the tent.

“I don't want to hurt their feelings and demonstrate I can defeat them while scratching an itch with my sword,” Sanguinius replied without missing a beat. He flashed a quick grin at his brother, but it faded quickly, and his next words were serious. “But banter isn't why you came here, is it?”

“Not the only reason,” Angron replied, stopping in front of Sanguinius “A man must find ways of amusing himself—there is a limited amount of ork heads I can hack off.”

Sanguinius arched his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side—clearly, this was not the right moment to cautiously approach the subject. Not that Angron ever had the patience to do so.

“How dangerous are the World Eaters' Librarians?” he asked for a moment standing absolutely still.

Sanguinius studied him for a moment, his expression solemn. “You are not asking about how much damage they can do the enemies of mankind.” The statement was just that—a statement, not a question, so Angron waited for his brother to continue. “I'm also a psyker, you know?”

Angron paused. “I am not saying I do not trust you—I trust your judgement and this not a matter I know enough about. If I am to lead them, I must know this. I am sorry, if this is subject you do not like talking about, brother, but you're supposed to teach me.”

“No more dangerous than a grenade that has not been primed,” Sanguinius answered. One of his wings twitched, and the woman who had been cleaning it flinched away. The Primarch shot her an apologetic look, before turning back to Angron. “Or a nuclear plant with the cooling systems fully operational.”

Angron nodded, folding his arms over his chest. His expression became thoughtful, as he considered what he had just heard. The implication of controlled danger was still there, but it did not sound as if the Librarians were ticking time-bombs like the untrained psyker had been. 

“If this is unsatisfactory, you can do what the XIVth did, and let your Librarians and psychic initiates join other Legions,” Sanguinius added. He did not sound as if the solution were to his liking.

Angron shook his head, this time less vehemently. “No. I want to know what I'm dealing with, but it doesn't mean I will throw people away just because one of them may one day fail.”

“The XIVth will dispute that,” Sanguinius sighed. “At length.”

“You don't like him,” Angron answered, as he started to pace. The tone his brother indicated as much—it was laced with a kind of long-suffering patience that spoke volumes. Not to mention he was not using the XIVth's name.

“He is... difficult,” Sanguinius replied. For a moment, he seemed to be lost in thought. “I suppose I'm also jealous—like Horus and Magnus, he was mentored by out father.”

Angron digested the information. Did this make him feel jealous? Worth less than the two others, of whom he only knew their names? Horus—he was the first one found, he recalled. Magnus Sanguinius had mentioned at a different point, with both fondness and exasperation. 

“Perhaps he thought he shouldn't inflict the XIVth on anyone else?” he replied with a shrug. “Since he's... difficult.” He grinned as he mimicked Sanguinius's pause, and his brother seemed to catch on the joke, since he smiled back.

“I am being uncharitable,” Sanguinius said, shaking his head. “Mortarion probably has enough problems without me gossiping about him.”

“Like being named Mortarion?” Angron snorted.

“Your name is Angron,” Sanguinius pointed out.

“Makes you wonder if we don't all have 'let's name them something idiotic' field,” Angron replied, grinning back.

“Speak for yourself, brother,” Sanguinius replied, tossing his hair over his shoulder smugly. “My name is awe inspiring.”

“And since I respond to Angron, changing my name just because you think it's amusing would be tedious,” Angron replied, shrugging again.

Sanguinius appeared thoughtful again, but it was just for a moment. Angron wondered what in what he had said would make him introspective—was it something he should know, and so pry about? Or was it something that was of no concern to him? He couldn't tell—not with what was a fleeting moment and a guess.

“Do you have any other concerns about your Legion?” Sanguinius asked, before Angron could ask his own question.

“Concerns? No,” Angron replied as he passed an ornate servitor. “Sometimes, they make me wonder why they need me at all.”

Sanguinius smiled, but though the expression was warm, there was also something wistful about it. “They do need you. Not always as a general, but like sons need a father.”

“They're adults,” Angron protested, turning around to face Sanguinius again.

“They're of age,” Sanguinius countered. “But maturity... varies from Astartes to Astartes, and from matter to matter. They do need you.”

“The ideal soldiers with an ideal commander bound to him with ties stronger than a mere chains of command,” Angron said, caught dead by the realisation. It was... both horrible and brilliant, in a ruthless way. He could not leave—not when thousands suffered as his brothers and sisters had, and yet, he was given command over...

No, he was disrespectful of those placed under his command. True, they were unreasonably loyal to him, but they were not children that were easily manipulated and lead astray.

He shook his head, and looked at Sanguinius, just as he dismissed the three that had been cleaning his wings. “Maturity varies in everyone, augmented or not.”

“Really, brother,” Sanguinius chided. “You've taken up your responsibility as a general—why are you avoiding that of a father?”

The answer was easy. “Because no father in his right mind will send his children to die.”  
'  
It hit a nerve. Sanguinius flinched, but he did not turn away his gaze. His expression turned solemn. “If that were true, none of the chieftains back on Baal Secundus would have sired any sons. People do make this choice, brother, and suffer while making it, but it does not make them monsters. If you are responsible for others, then what they need becomes more important than what you do. That is why I accept that I am both commander and father to the Blood Angels—and this is why you should as well.”

“It makes you a monster,” Angron replied, as knelt down in front of Sanguinius so that their eyes were on the same level. “As I have been a monster. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that we are necessary monsters, but we are.”

“You'd rather I cast away my sons?” Sanguinius asked. Angron wasn't sure if he could convince him that he was wrong, but he had to try. He could tell that his brother meant well, that he wanted the best—if only he could make him see that there was another way.

“I don't want you to suffer unnecessarily,” Angron answered, placing his hands on Sanguinius's shoulders. “I don't want you to take up a role you do not need to out of a sense of mistaken obligation. I've seen so many of my brothers and sister break—it hadn't been pretty. I don't want this to happen to you, Sanguinius.

“Accept that you are leading adults—some of them immature and in need of guidance, but all of them capable of making their own choices.”

“Maybe,” Sanguinius replied, closing his eyes. For a moment, he was silent, and then, when he opened them again, he appeared as unconvinced as before. “But my blood flows in them. They are my sons. The blood endures. You cannot deny that.”

“I can,” Angron replied firmly. “Blood does not have to bind—common experience does. If you do not bring up a child, it is not your child. Can you say that you have watched over each and every Blood Angel when they were teething, or let them crawl into your bed when they were five and terrified of the monsters underneath their beds?”

“Of course not. It does not work that way.” Sanguinius stood up abruptly and began pacing. “Not that any parent on Baal had the time or energy to coddle children so.”

“This is it, isn't it?” Angron asked rising. “This is about your world, and what it made you.”

“Are you not what your world made you?” Sanguinius shot back angrily.

“My world taught me about oppression, and about how easy it is to abuse power,” Angron snarled. “If I do what you say, if I give the World Eaters what they want, I will be no better than the paper-skins that forced me to fight my brothers and sisters for their entrainment.”

Sanguinius stopped his pacing and faced Angron again. For a moment, they stood like this measuring each other with their gazes. Then, Sanguinius seemed to calm down. 

“I... see why you'd fear that,” Sanguinius said. “I cannot see my sons the way you see your Legion, but I see that I was wrong to push my way on you.”

This was not what Angron had wanted, but what he wanted would not come easily. One discussion would not change someone's world-view, especially so engrained. At best, he could hope that some of what he had said would be a seed of doubt that would grow into something more.

He offered Sanguinius a rueful smile. “I cannot promise I will not argue with you in the future, so it would be unfair of me to expect the same from you. But you are right—let's put this off until we're bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'm still writing this. Slowly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Erebus and Lorgar suffer dealing with man-children and socially stunted supermen.

Nightfall was shrouded in darkness. It was not the perpetual twilight of Barbarus's hidden valleys, but a night stolen from a sunless world. Mortarion had been told it was because both the Terran and Nostroman Night Lords found it more comfortable. The crew was Nostroman as well—even the voidborn Navy crews found the darkness oppressive.

Mortarion found it slightly irritating—at the back of his head, he could not get rid of the thought that the Night Lords and their crew could function with a bit more light. Just enough for those not used to such darkness not to stumble and walk into walls. Still, this was not the reason for his sour mood. The reason was standing next to him, and giving him a lecture.

“You are a hypocrite, brother.” 

Mortarion looked to the side, at the granite-clad form of the other Primarch. Unlike his own face, Lorgar's visage was smooth, uncared. Golden cuneiform tattoos flowed over his features and bald scalp.

“You hate me for my powers, but not Konrad,” Lorgar continued, his tone gentle, yet firm.

“He does not pretend it's not a curse,” Mortarion growled.

For a moment, the mask of the patient teacher cracked, and a flash of... anger? passed over Lorgar's face. Then, it melted and became irony. That, Mortarion had not expected.

“I do not think that bleeding from my eyes and nose every time I wake, and never dreaming anything but nightmares counts as a blessing, brother,” the Urizen replied. He turned to look into the darkness of the Nightfall's hall. “You do not mind, because you like Konrad, but you hate me for mine.”

“And you pity us both,” Mortarion snarled. “Not as perfect as you, are we? Not the golden untouched children, who never knew suffering.”

A chuckle came from the shadow, low and mocking. “So very outspoken you are, silent Mortarion.” Konrad Curze slipped out from the darkness, almost as if it had just given birth to him. “But I do not need a knight. Lorgar on the other hand...”

“Has heard better tirades from a fragile old human,” the Urizen said drily. “Though, I admit, the... man who brought me up could not sneak up on me as well as you do, Konrad. I hope that is some consolation.”

Mortarion glanced at Lorgar again, wondering at the last comment. The pause before the word “man” was not an unintentional hesitation—not in someone who was known to be a consummate orator. This was to be a hint of some kind, a glimpse of something, but he had no patience for word games.

“You are both obnoxious,” he hissed. “Let us be done with this, and get on with planning—that is why we have come here.”

“And I thought you were here to enjoy my charm and brilliant conversation skills,” Konrad said, his voice dripping with mock-hurt. “Since you like me.”

“Eaves-dropping is a bad habit, brother,” Lorgar chided. The tone sounded uncanny to Mortarion—there was no rancour in it, no intention to harm. Why would anyone speak like that?

“It's the best way to learn,” Konrad replied, grinning a mirthless smile. 

“You do know that actually depends on many factors, don't you?” Lorgar answered placidly. “But I will not annoy Mortarion by giving you a lecture on learning strategies.”

It didn't seem like either had the intention of ending the banter, so clearly Mortarion had to motivate them in a way that not involve growling at them to shut up. Slowly, he edged to the side, until he was between and slightly behind both of them, and then attempted to grab each by the back of their head.

Konrad managed to evade his hand completely. The Night Lord's Primarch turned around, his power claw shooting out towards Mortarion's face, only to see his target slam against the wall. Lorgar's eyes were glowing with eldritch energy, his jaw set. He hadn't needed to touch Mortarion to toss him effortlessly away—his psychic powers had been enough.

For a moment, Konrad appeared to consider his next course of action, before standing straight again. “Did you learn your lesson yet, Mortarion? Or does it need reinforcing?”

Mortarion bared his teeth in response, battle-hormones flooding his body. “And what would you teach me? That being stabbed with a power claw hurts, or is there anything equally obvious you want to share with me?”

Konrad crouched, ready to leap, while Mortarion reached for his Manreaper, ready to fight his brother. 

“Stop!” Lorgar shouted, golden glow wreathing him like a halo. In that moment, he was unmistakably the Emperor's son, his very image. “We are getting nowhere. Can we please focus on why we are here?”

Konrad Curze hissed in Nostroman, shielding his eyes from the light. 

Mortarion glared at Lorgar, trying to puzzle out what just happened. It all didn't add up—he was aware he should have expected the Night Haunter to lash out at him for sneak up on him, but why would Lorgar react like this? It was like Mortarion himself would react...

“You're right,” he said, looking away. 

***

Sevatar sprawled over the chair, like a giant self-satisfied tomcat. He had placed his legs on the conference table—Erebus was still wondering who managed to convince Konrad Curze that he needed one—and laced his hands behind his head.

First Captain Nathaniel Garro gave him a speculative look. 

Erebus pretended to study his nails, while surreptitiously glancing at the two other Astartes. 

Garro seemed to reach a conclusion, and rose from his seat. He marched towards Sevatar, who continued ignoring him in the most provocative way one could ignore another person. Garro, undaunted, grabbed one the Night Lord's outstretched legs and pulled. 

There was a resounding crash, followed by Nostroman cursing—Erebus wondered how satisfying it really was, given that Nostroman was mostly melodic hissing. 

“Chairs are easily overbalanced,” Garro informed Sevatar solemnly.

“No, really?” the Night Lord growled, pulling himself up from the floor. “If you want to pick a fight, just say so. I don't discriminate—I fight Terrans too.”

“Is he always so juvenile?” Garro asked, as if he hadn't just been an idiot. 

“Brothers,” Erebus said. “Our Lords will be here... eventually. Do you want them to find us squabbling and posturing?”

Garro had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Sevatar made a show of pretending to consider his answer. He looked at the ceiling. Then, he scratched his head. “Yeah. The Night Haunter has such low expectations that practically anything I do is a pleasant surprise.”

“Just pretend to be impressed,” Erebus whispered theatrically to Garro, smiling his most charming smile at Sevatar. “He will start behaving once he thinks we believe he's the superior one in the room.”

Sevatar snorted, and put his legs on the table again. This time, however, he kept an eye on Garro, clearly not intending to get caught unaware again. The Death Guard sat straighter and his expression slid towards what Erebus decided to describe as demonstrative propriety. Sometimes, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers was certain that he was the only truly mature adult in the whole Galaxy—Primarchs included.

As if the universe were trying to prove him right, the Primarchs entered the chamber. Instantly, Erebus and the two other Astartes rose. Erebus caught Mortarion giving Sevatar an amused look.

“Don't encourage him,” Konrad Curze hissed. 

“I don't need encouragement, sire,” Sevatar announced smugly.

Erebus watched with amusement, as Lorgar looked mournfully at the ceiling and shook his head in resignation.

“We have other more important things to discuss,” Lorgar said. “Shall we?”

***

Without biological or cybernetic enhancements a human being would be able to take precisely three breaths on Stangetz before their lungs would melt. Before the Night fell, this had been merely a minor obstacle—mankind wanted the bounty hidden beneath the crust, and it would get them, even if it meant building orbital plates and habitats in the corrosive atmosphere.

For a while, the world and its new populace prospered. 

Then, the Long Night fell, and with it came the nightmares. Stangetz's people fought, and for a while they kept on winning. But the nightmares kept returning, and they did so from the shadows. 

Sometimes, a few workers would not return from their shift. Sometimes, a habitat would fall silent. And yet, life went on. A life where one feared the shadows, and where vigilance and terror ruled, but it was a life.

It would be easy to think that once given a chance to leave their fear behind, and become a part of something glorious again, they would leap at the chance. But humankind was a flawed species. An old fear was like a well-worn shoe. A new uncertain future, even when it promises safety and freedom, was infinitely more terrifying than the shadows and the nightmares of their mothers and fathers.

Konrad Curze understood that. He understood fear, unlike Mortarion and Lorgar. They only knew it.

Stangetz's leaders could claim that they did not wish to fight wars that had nothing to do with them, but the Night Haunter knew that it was fear that truly dictated their words. They feared losing their power—and they inevitably would. After all, they could not keep the nightmares at bay, but the new regime would.

Leaders need to at least pretend to protect their own. Even on Nostromo it was true. 

Konrad Curze looked out through the large window, into the darkness beyond. His own reflection looked back at him, teeth bared in something approximating a mirthless smile.

Why did everything always come back to fear?

**Author's Note:**

> I finally managed to get around rewriting Ripples. I've been thinking about it ever since ADB wrote it wasn't possible to take out the Butcher's Nails without killing Angron, and while I could have decided "screw that" and kept on writing, it didn't really feel right, given that the idea was more to stick to canon while changing things, if that makes any sense.
> 
> So, instead, I decided to simply have Angron never get the Nails, while still being a gladiator. Which, quite naturally changed his story a lot.


End file.
